


Crimes at Night

by empires



Series: Crimes at Night [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Case Fic, Jason does not become Robin, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, yj verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: It's summer in Gotham, and the city is experiencing a record breaking heatwave and a rash of violence centered around a strange new drug circulating through the city's youth. Robin is determined to locate the drug's source and put an end to the distribution before things get worse.Cleaning up another old fic and tossing it onto AO3. This is one of my first story ideas for Jaydick, and I still love it. I hope you like it too.





	1. Chapter 1

When the summer heat index rises, the underlying tensions that fracture a city as diverse and beleaguered as Gotham climbs to the surface. The heat feeds on their frustrations, regrets, fears, and anger, and those feelings fester from sunrise to sunset. The heat saps away filters, fans tempers until something snaps and the world explodes. No one with a stake in the city wants chaos. It’s bad for business, bad for morale. During heatwaves, the criminal underbelly, struggling law enforcement, and vigilantes of Gotham come together for an unspoken truce. It’s for survival, their own and the city itself. Some don’t know that they’re walking around with a lit match. Others just don’t care.

This summer, the uncaring have unleashed a malady on the city during this heatwave that fizzles and spurts like a trail of lit powder that leads to explosives.

Gotham’s affluent school-aged population are swinging into the mad rush of party season before school begins. But this year's party scene has spiraled from inane fun to terrifying, drug-induced nightmares when a new methamphetamine cocktail named “candy pink” hit the scene. Two deaths and a rash of hospitalizations in the first few weeks of the drugs introduction have made the dangerous drug more attractive. It’s the kind of combination that leads to crying families, blame, and high tension. And still, the drug pushes on, feeding petty ventures to a fraught public. 

Batman had tracked the drug from the Eastern Shore into Gotham. Unfortunately, the trail dies before the revealing distribution. They know when and possibly how the first shipment made it into the city but not who is cooking and pushing or how it’s reaching the users. The drug’s composition gives no clue of its source. It lacked the exotic plants toxins or chemicals that could link it to one of their frequent flyers. None of the city’s crime syndicates have taken credit for the drugs influence either as they were too busy keeping their people in check until the city reached a normal level of calm. That’s why Batman needs a Robin whose connections cross into the drug’s market of overly entitled, underwhelmed, and highly social teenage elite. Dick’s just excited he’s in on it for once. More than in, really. He’s running his own investigation.

The heat permeates the subway system filling the rocking car with a dank, musky scent. It’s soggy and wet inside, like Dick’s riding inside of the world’s dirtiest sweat sock, but the smells and angry grunts of the other passengers can’t bring him down.

His thumb swipes across his cell phone revealing a small tank trundling down a narrow corridor. To anyone looking over his shoulder, it might look like one of a thousand defense games played to pass the time, but in truth, the game is a sophisticating surveillance and tracking software he'd developed. A true Robin special. He’s following a classmate one who let a name slip at the last party Dick Grayson attended, so casually in a hallway, “we have to hit up Grady if this crowd wants to get pink.” The classmate slouched at the front of the car. Dick can just make out his yellow shirt and crossed tennis shoes planted firmly on the floor.

The farther they travel on the rollicking subway train, the more it looks like this classmate is heading to Crime Alley. If this Grady character is there, if he’s a dealer, Dick is going to find him. Before midnight he’d have a location, visual confirmation, and if he’s lucky, an in on Grady’s distribution channels. All in the night’s work for Robin.

On screen, the tank exits the stage. Dick waits by the subway doors a few beats to put distance and sweaty, shuffling bodies between him and his mark. He doesn’t have to put a lot of effort because the kid doesn’t look back once. Still, he counts to twenty before climbing the stairs leading to the street.

The air smothering 122nd and Park West is thick with melting asphalt and the faint decay of the river that winds lazily near Old Gotham on its way down to the bay. The streets are dark, night finally having fallen on the city while Dick was underground.

The block seems entirely too empty for ten-thirty, and the few people Dick spy are stumbling into their homes drunk from heat and alcohol. The bones of Park West are similar to any other modest Gotham neighborhood, brick, mortar, and a corner store on every block, trees standing tall, older cars parked two deep along the wide street. Ornate stone and iron steps cling to facades of the apartment buildings and houses, their purpose still found in its use—guiding people home. A lot of the buildings are abandoned though, crumbling, and down the way, Dick finds empty lots, graffiti bright against the green construction boards. It’s more than a tag; it’s a claim, warning sign, one he doesn’t recognize. But Dick doesn’t have time to give it further thought. In the distance, he sees a flash of yellow turning the corner and starts to follow.

“Robin.“ Batman’s voice draws him short. He raises the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?”

“There’s a domestic hostage situation in Germantown.” Batman leaves it at that, letting Robin make the call.

“I understand,” he says. They both have a job to do tonight. “I'll keep you updated with my location, but I don't think I'll need back up tonight."

Through the earpiece, Dick can make out the faint whine of the batmobile's turbine engine spinning up to top speed. Batman must have been nearby if he has to kick into overdrive.

"I'm approaching the Southside bridge," Batman says, confirming Dick's suspicions.

"I'm at Park West moving south to 124rd following the. Shit!”

“Language.” Normally, Dick would grin at the British inflection Bruce’s voice took on certain words—Alfred’s influence comes out in the strangest and most telling ways—but not right now.

“Sorry. My tank just fell off the screen.” He taped at his phone and three Robin heads popped up scanning, trying to pinpoint his tracking signal. After several seconds, Red Robins blink at him, eyes crossed and jeering. He taps up another program to maybe figure out exactly what happened but all he can see is that his tracking signal is dead. “This is. Not whelmed.”

“Do you need assistance?”

He doesn’t need help. He needs to level up his coding apparently. “You help the GPD. I’m good.”

“What’s your next step?” Batman’s voice sounds quietly noncommittal, which means he’s working at his own console with the same success, probably.

Dick grins and starts fluffing his hair up a bit. “Improvise.”

“Report in when appropriate, and if you need backup….”

“I have a partner who can help.” Dick finishes, a tight grin pulling at his mouth. This conversation usually goes the other way around, and he can feel himself standing a little straighter because of it.

“Two hours and then you report back to the cave.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Batman signs off, but they both know he’s still monitoring Robin’s every move. It’s unreal how focused Bruce can be. But the ability to multitask and keep the same level of concentration on all things is what makes the Batman super scary. Robin has a similar level of concentration, and a tenacious desire to solve every problem placed before him. Life’s not interesting unless there’s a challenge to overcome, right? Now Dick must discover where his classmate disappeared to and how. He also has to be discrete in his search. A neighborhood never sleeps. Dick knows that he’s being watched from somewhere, by someone because he’s a stranger to the neighborhood, so he has to blend in a little first. Give them a reason to why the skinny kid is on their block.

Dick ducks into the shadows and pulls out a tiny vial. He begins dropping some liquid into his eye. It stings a little, but it should be enough to give his eyes the strawberry bubble gum color that candy pink stained its victims. He pulls at his tank top a little, rucking his clothes and hair until he looks reasonably disheveled before slumping his way down Park Row.

The signal ended somewhere around the store fronts that line this side of Park Row. Most of them closed, their glass windows covered by grates and aluminum doors, none of which he’d heard opening or closing when he’d made it to the street. Not that that mattered. Some of the owners could do their own maintenance work and lube up the security gates. He starts to push against them as he walks staring up at the wheel mechanisms when the screech or give quiet groans.

Dick circles the block twice quickly at first on the chance that he’d see his classmate pass in front of a window or walk out of a door or something. He waits at the corner for fifteen minutes, gives Batman a quick rundown then starts down the street again. It becomes quickly apparent that he’s lost his lead. The pride he’d felt earlier evaporates quickly leaving behind an embarrassed pitch in his gut.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing right now,” Dick mutters to himself looking out into the street. Frustrated, he kicks a crushed can and watches it skitter into the edge of an alleyway. He follows it and picks it up, ready to toss it into the trash.

“Recycling don’t make it this far west, rich boy.” A voice calls out. “You can just leave it.”

“Uh. Hey?” Dick makes a show of studying the alley he just passed. “It’s not cool to make snap judgments about people. I could be from Park Row.”

“You open your mouth and uptown falls out,” the voice scoffs. It’s boyish, loud and not quite deep enough for the hard attitude it’s trying to project. “You’re not from around here. What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know really.” There’s a narrow figure leaning in the shadows, one foot pressed against a door. Propping it open, maybe, or easing it close. “Maybe you can help me figure it out. Can you come here for a second?”

“Why?”

“You scared of me?” Dick teases. He spreads his arms out showing off his lean body and open grin. “Come on. I got a question for you.”

A boy swaggers into the light like the street was his stage and Dick his captive audience. And for a second, Dick is surprised by the look of him—a little taller than Dick first estimated, younger too, no more than sixteen with short dark hair swept back fro hims forehead. When he steps down to the sidewalk, Dick can see they’re nearly eye to startlingly clear green eye that blaze under the dim streetlamps.

“I’m just looking for something. Maybe you can help me?” Dick holds his hands palms out and lets his grin turn hopeful.

The kid continues his slow walk over giving Dick enough time to take in his frayed cargo shorts and a red, sleeveless hooded shirt he’s wearing that’s slashed into a deep vee over his chest. He’s got a rangy thinness to him, the size of his wrists proclaiming there’s still more growing to do. He crosses his arms and draws himself up trying to loom. He gives Dick a once over and frowns deeply, probably finding him lacking and ten shades of stupid. His words confirm the thought, “What could someone like you be looking for on Park Row?”

Perfect.

“Information, I guess? I was told I could find a guy down here to help me out with my uh. My problems. If you can. You know. If you know where to find um, Grady? I could help you out too. Maybe.” Dick keeps his movements nice and slow as he pulled a money clip out of his coat pocket. The clip itself has tracker placed in the bird’s jeweled eye and each bill is coated with a nanite solution that he can follow too. Either way, he’ll be able to track it back to the dealers.

He peels out a couple of bills making sure his hands shake a little to show he’s a properly intimidated. The kid’s face is closed off now, eyes hard, lips clenched like he’s insulted. Dick pulls out another twenty and folds them together. “Here. If you know where I can find Grady. Or if. You know. Here. For your help.”

The kid snatches the money out of his hands which is a good sign. Dick let’s his posture relax, his guileless grin form. He’s just a dumb rich kid looking for some trouble, no harm done. He’s busy throwing out easy, approachable vibes that Dick’s embarrassed to say that he didn’t see the kid’s fist coming. He slides with the blow, doubling over with a grunt that’s half surprise and half feigned before slamming against the metal grating along the closed store fronts.

Batman’s voice snaps, “report,” in his ear.

“I’m okay.” Dick coughs weakly, more startled than hurt. He holds up his hands palm out and presses his own body into the grating that swings and creaks behind him. His jaw is clasped in a surprisingly strong hand and twisted from side to side. Up close, the kid seems easier to read.

His eyes flicker as he studies Dick, their green depths assertive and assessing. The corner of his mouth hitches up and his brow furrows. He looks surprised and it’s the most open expression Dick has seen on his handsome face.

“Dude, what is your problem?” asks Dick.

“You’re not on anything,” he says flatly.

Dick blinks at him. He thought he’d done a pretty good job of candying himself up but apparently, he’d got it wrong. He’d have to go with honesty then. “Um. No?”

The kid sighs and suddenly he looks twenty years older, world weary, with eyes that has seen it all. It’s fascinating and Dick is already shifting to match this change, a new plan unfolding in his mind. “This is Red Hood territory. We don’t want you or your money here.” He shoves the wad of bills into Dick’s chest.

Dick fumbles with the twenties, letting them slide through his fingers so he can drop to his knees and scramble for them. Performance, he still enjoys it, playing into people’s expectations, it’s still so easy. When he stands back up, his pristine jeans are dirty at the knees and he’s folding the bills together, contrition in his every nervous move. “I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to say you needed my money or anything. I just. I’m just looking for this guy and that’s what you’re supposed to do right? I don’t. Why do you think I’m high or something?”

“Listen to me closely.” He pulls Dick upright and close until they’re a sliver away from colliding. “We don’t want drugs around here. You looking for Grady? Then you’re in the wrong neighborhood.”

He reaches up to flatting his hand over the kid’s fingers. “I don’t understand,” he whispers.

“You don’t understand English?” The kid sighs when Dick blinks at him, eyes big and begging for answers, and settles back on his heels looking at Dick with a face torn between amusement and scorn. “Look, whatever problems you have at home can’t be solved down here, okay? And it’s fucked up that you think you can come here and get lost.”

“I’m not—“

“Do you even care what they’d do to us if something happened to you?”

“I’m sorry,” says Dick, because he does know.

“What?” The kid looks taken aback when Dick steps into his space again.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats. “I just. They told me to come down here and ask for a guy named Grady. I thought it’d be.” He scrubs the hair tickling his throat behind an ear. “Cool, you know. A rush.”

“Did you come down here for a bet?”

Dick shrugs in reply.

“You guys are all freaking idiots. Look. There’s a platform right over there.” He points across the block where the curved entrance to another subway entrance looms. “Go home before you find someone who won’t be so nice.”

“This is you being nice?”

“This is me saving your ass. Go on.” He waves his hand. “You’ve got a good enough story now. It’s time for you to do stupid shit in your own home.” When Dick fails to move, he shoves him a few stumbling steps forward.

“But what about Grady?” Dick pleads.

“For real? Look, I’m doing you a favor. You don’t get on that train right now, then I’m going to give you a taste of what a guy like that would do to a pretty rich boy like you.” He shoves Dick again. It doesn’t sound like a threat coming from this kid, but it worries him.

“Okay, okay.” Dick spins away, hands up again and walks backwards under the kid’s watchful eyes. “You gonna tell me your name? So, I can really sell it.”

The kid puffs up visibly, shoulders straightening, mouth cracking into a sharp grin. “Red Hood.”

“This is your territory?”

“This is our home. Now get the fuck out of it. It’s been long enough. Maybe mommy and daddy will notice you’re gone. You can get attention from a whole lot of people now.”

“Okay, okay. I’m gone. And I really am sorry.” Dick throws a little wave before jogging across the street. He turns back in time to see the kid melt into the shadows. He’s got style, Dick’ll give him that. “I won’t forget you,” he shouts.

Across the street, the kid flips him off. Dick laughs and waves again, then jogs down the stairs. And he’ll find the kid again because he slipped a bill into his pocket.

“I’d expect you to sound a little more disappointed, Robin.”

“Nah. I’ve confirmed that Grady is real and narrowed down where his influence might end in the East, so it wasn’t a complete bust,” Dick says, suddenly chipper when he lays out the night. “Hey. Did you know about the Red Hoods?”

There’s a definite pause before Batman replies. “They haven’t made it onto my radar yet.”

Dick’s laughter echoes in the empty station thankful that the night isn’t a complete bust. “And I found a newly formed neighborhood gang. I think I can recreate their mark too, for the records. You’re welcome.”

"You can gloat when you make it home, Robin.”

“You got it B!”


	2. Chapter 2

The Grady lead fizzles after the abbreviated investigation into Red Hood territory. The classmate he was following had flown to the Seychelles with his familty the next day putting the kibosh on Dick’s plan on gathering more information at the next party. With the leads stalled out, Batman has shifted from intimidation and prevention to investigation and strategic intervention. Which is really a fancy way for setting aside the cape and cowl for another type of costume, a different kind of performance to locate the threat's source. Batman had spent two nights on the street searching for Grady as Matches Malone, and when that didn’t work, pulled his Joel Kaufman persona out of the closet, hitting clubs with a younger clientele that appreciated the confirmed bachelor’s generosity and good looks. Several phone numbers and sugar baby propositions later, Batman had found himself without a solid lead. 

Dick is left with one option: talk to Red Hood again.

Okay, as plans go, it’s a little thin, but Batman has clued his way to justice with only a packet of pixie sticks and two horse shoes. Dick has got way more to go on in this situation.

Setting up the encounter takes two afternoons of tracking and a little finesse. He can’t be seen coming back to Park West without a good reason. Red Hood is shrewd enough to pick apart something that doesn’t quite fit into his late nights running people out of his neighborhood. After all, it had only taken him a minute of scrutinizing Dick’s hasty disguise to see he wasn’t high. So, Dick watches and waits until the kid is a little further outside of his home turf hoping that neutral ground that might get the Red Hood to loosen up enough for a chat. Or at the very least, give him a name, an address, or anything that’ll lead him to Grady.

Neutral ground turns out to be a diner near the midtown theater.

On his phone, a little red fox trots up the map towards him right as a group of boys come swaggering across the street. They walk close together, and their voices are boisterous and loud above the traffic and enter the diner. Taking in took in posture, gaits, group rhythm on top of the basic demographics to add to Batman’s growing file on the Red Hoods. Red Hood Gang? Red Hood and his band of Scary Men? They move through the streets with purpose, confidence, and the kind of quick laughter Dick associates with friendship. Except the kid in the center. The Red Hood seems more serious. His smiles are slow to appear and flicker across his face like lightening.

Dick tucks the phone into his pocket and waits until the waitress brings out their drinks before crossing the street. Two bells clang together when he pushes through the door. The waitress looks up from the cashier takes a long look at the sloppy bun perched on the crown of his head and his ratty tank top with a screen print of the Gotham city crest smoking a cigarette. She rolls her eyes expressively. At least Dick can pull off pretentious rich kid. He plasters on an excited grin and heads to the back of the restaurant where four boys sit slouched together in a rounded corner booth.

Dick’s halfway to their table when one of them—6”1, 184 pounds, left handed, favors the right knee, football injury—nudges the boy to his right, the boy who called himself Red Hood, and mutters, “Jason.” Dick fights hard against the triumph building inside of him. Not even two minutes in and he has a name.

Red Hood, Jason, looks up and immediately Dick begins updating his mental picture of the boy. The steely-eyed, tough kid clothed in shadows became a good-looking kid, handsome, in that strong jawed, blue-eyed rebel kind of way. He sits with his shoulders straight while everyone else leans and slouches. The sunlight pouring through the window light’s Jason’s dark hair aflame and now is not the time to remember his thing for redheads or dark hair with red highlights or…. Dick’s got a job to do, really.

Jason doesn’t say anything when Dick turns up the wattage of his smile. His wide mouth just bends in a heavy frown, and his eyes.

“I saw you through the window. I mean, I didn’t know that I saw you, but I thought maybe. Uh. Hi. Do you remember me?” Dick doesn’t have to fake the flush on his cheeks. Just because he’s playing a part doesn’t mean he’s not embarrassed by how happy he sounds. Almost breathless. He needs to dial down dumb rich kid down a notch.

There’s a thick silence where everything seems to zero in on the suspicious, angry, and amused stares he receives. It’s only broken when one of the others kicks under the table and mutters, “Damn, Jay. It’s like that?”

The comment must spur Jason into action because he slumps against the booth, arm coming to hang over the seat, head tilting lazily and his eyes. His eyes are electric even now, catching hold of Dick’s own and challenging. Defiant.

“Who the hell are you?”

Dick knows he’s been recognized but if that’s the way Red Hood wants to play it. He lets his smile fizzle. “We uh. We met the other night in Park Row. You called me ‘rich boy’.”

The kid to Jason’s left coughs into his palm. The boy closest to Dick—dark skin, shaved head under his flat billed cap, straight teeth, and a ready grin—looks him up and down then glances back at Jason. His smile grows wider.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“He called me ‘rich boy,’” Dick repeats louder, shoulders curling in and then back out. Disappointed but not ashamed.

“You need a minute with your friend here?” the kid across from Jason says with a sneer.

Jason seems to be considering and it’s interesting to see the way the other three lean waiting for his words. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I think I do.”

The amusement at the table turns into silent shock and then, “Well damn.”

“Tell the old man I’ll see him tomorrow,” says Jason.

“That means we’re out. We’ll catch you at the thing, Jay.”

“We can’t just leave. I was joking!” sneers Sir Sneers-A-Lot and maybe, Dick thinks, it’s just the way his mouth is set. A small scar near the corner that pulls his smile. He’s dragged out the booth by the tall kid, who carefully scoots around Dick on the way to the door. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“But here we are. Walking out the door.”

Jason and Flat Bill Cap slap hands before he slides out the booth. He gives Dick another once over and winks. “Be seeing you around, rich boy.”

“I got my eye on you, rich boy,” someone shouts over the bells clang. Dick turns and finds two fingers trained on him. Eye on you, Sir Sneers-A-Lot mouths before he’s dragged onto the sidewalk.

When the door shuts again, it’s only Dick and Jason and the rest of the diner who carried on like loud-mouthed kids are another track on today’s jukebox. Dick slides into the booth inching closer until Jason’s shoulder’s stiffened. Close enough then. He lets a nervous smile cross his lips.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. My name’s Dick. In case you were wondering.” He holds out a hand while Jason stifles a laugh. “Go ahead,” he says. “I’ve heard them all.”

“It’s not even your name, man. Just.” Jason flicks his fingers while he catalog’s Dick’s attire. “You here for community service or urban exploring? I’m guessing exploring with those boots.”

“No, no. I just wanted some Italian ice and Street View says this neighborhood has the best Italian Ice.” He’s visited Pecora’s Italian Ice Shoppe a couple times, twice in costume when he was younger. Pecora is still the nicest guys Dick’s ever met in his life. And he knows Clark Kent.

The waitress wanders over and eyes them suspiciously. “You gonna order?”

“You want something?” One glance at Jason tells Dick that the only thing he wants is for this conversation to be over. Dick turns his smile back to the waitress. “Uh. Chili cheese fries please. And I’ll take a pop, Zesti Crush.”

Jason waits in silence until she comes back with Jason’s refill and Dick’s drink. Dick knows this game, has played with the master. Instead of letting the silence wrap around them, Dick fills the space with movement. Fingers tapping on the table, his leg jittering on the leather seat in false anxiousness. He twists the leather strap hanging around his neck and then breaks out his favorite tactic to get Bruce to talk. He hums. Really, Jason didn’t have a chance.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason growls.

“I told you,” says Dick. “I saw you and I wanted to…. Talk. You want me to go?”

“Christ yes. I’m thinking I wish I never met you right now,” mutters Jason.

“Ouch. That’s kind of harsh.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You could at least tell me your name. I introduced myself and all.”

“He’s only been here for like, five minutes and he’s already trying to civilize the natives,” Jason says to the world at large.

“Hey,” Dick frowns at him. “That’s not cool, man.”

“Probably not. But it’s not enough to get you out of here so what is it?” Jason bursts, voice low and accusing.

"I’m not—“

“I don’t believe in coincidences and I make my own luck. You walked in here for a reason, rich boy. What is it?”

“Huh?” says Dick eloquently. The conversation is going south at 100 miles per hour.

“You must want me to do something. What is it? I’ve seen it happen a lot. One of you rich kids comes here and decides they want to make nice.” Jason bends his fingers back as he lists his reasos starting with his pinky and working his way up. “You got a taste of something real and you want it again. Something to take back to those soulless yups you hang out with each day. Not because you like each other but because your parents are all hate-fucking behind closed doors and you’re trying to pretend like your whole life is a lie. Or you’re a clueless, lonely fuck who doesn’t know what he has is better than he can ever find here.” He catches Dick’s startled face and laughs. “Doesn’t matter which one it is, I already know what I’m supposed to do. Want me to go to a party with you? Scandalize the sophisticated people with what we shiftless losers are like. Dance together at your prom and ride off into the sunset?”

“No.” Dick blinks at the anger and rebuke coming from someone so young. Younger than him at least. Jason had a way with words, built stories in the blind of an eye. Only child then. Probably has a library card which could lead him to an address because, “You got a story for everything.”

“Life’s made up of our sad stories. It’s all the same, like any book or any movie. You just gotta figure out if you’re gonna be a hero or a victim.”

“Life’s not like that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jason gets a faraway look in his eyes like he’s lost in a memory. He shakes himself out of it and grins sharply. “Well, it should be.”

Life should be a lot of things to a lot of people. Kind, equitable, fair, free, and a host of other ideals that people think life owes them, hopes that never quite shape the future. It's rarely like that for people born into blissfully perfect circumstances. It's not like that at all in Gotham City. 

In a city like Gotham that glitters like a black stone at the bottom of a cold sea, life is pressure coming in on all sides. Dick goes days without feeling it sometimes. On other days, it’s a clammy, wet sensation tightening over his skin. A born performer, his life is a series of roles and performances that are becoming harder and harder to keep separate especially as his responsibilities continue to grow. The city needs him, the Titans need him, Bruce needs him. That's pressure. The thing of it is, he needs them too, and that’s pressure too. Living up to expectation, being what everyone needs, realizing that he’s not always going to be enough. Pressure. And then there’s school, because his parents would’ve wanted that for him, an education, put a little book smarts with his people smarts. Nothing but pressure because it can't last. He doesn't have enough in him for everything and everyone. Sometimes, only sometimes, he thinks it shouldn’t be like that. Especially when he learned that the hard way what it’s like to not be enough. He thinks he heard his papa say that once, can remember the feel his hand ruffling through his hair while he sat in his mother’s lap, the weight of a book on his thighs. The past kind of rules the future that way, and the present. That’s pressure too. He’s chosen the path of a hero, though right? And they always end up okay in the end.

Dick sets his elbows on the table and cups the nape of his neck, going through the list of distractions and boxing them up for later. Now is not the time to be thinking about it. He’s got to concentrate on pulling his investigation back on track and showing Bruce he’s good for more than lab work in the cave, more than a colorful distraction at his side. But still.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it should be.” Dick says, and if he sounds a little wistful, well, there’s no one around who cares to know.

“Didn’t you know, rich boy? I’m right about everything,” says Jason.

“I have a name.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to call you that though. Rich boy is at least half of your real name anyway.”

“Dick is my real name. Real nickname.”

“This nickname is better.”

“What’s your name again?”

Jason eyes him over the top of his cup. “Jason,” he says finally.

“Jason,” Dick repeats quietly. His mouth is already stretching into a grin. Wearing them down is kind of a Robin specialty. “You know, I kind of do want something from you. Can I ask you a question?”

“Maybe.”

”Okay. Okay. It’s been on my mind since we met.”

“No,” Jason interrupts. “Since I made a mistake and saved your dumbass.”

“Whatever you want to tell yourself.” Dick crowds closer in the booth. “What did you mean when you said that thing about—?” He goes quiet when the waitress comes up the aisle and sets a plate down on the table. Her eyes sweep over them, amusement cracking through her heavily made cheeks.

“Just let me know when you want your check boys,” she says with a laugh.

Jason’s eyes stubbornly refuse to meet his, which is whatever. Dick pulls his knee up on the bench, apologizing under his breath when it bumps against Jason’s thigh.

“You can have some fries if you want,” Dick offers while reaching for the fattest, cheesiest, chilliest french fry with his fingers. It goes down in two bites and leaves his fingers deliciously covered. “So, like. With the Grady thing,” he says after sucking his thumb clean. “What did you mean when you said, ‘the things he’d do with guys like me’?”

Jason looks confused again and a little flushed. “Are you even real?”

Dick reaches for another fry. “Yeah. But our reality is one of many, right?” He wiggles his eyebrows going for mysteriously cheesy.

Jason’s huff of laughter is gratifying, and Dick isn’t ashamed to say he preens a little, flashing him a quick smile before nudging the plate again. Jason waits a beat before grabbing the roll of silverware from the table and starts spearing fries with his fork.

Did he mention how wearing people down was kind of his thing? Because it is. Jason shakes his head between bites amusement rolling off him. He keeps sneaking glances at Dick who is always ready to intercept them with a smile or a toss of his hair, little things to help Jason see that he’s still that clueless rich kid, too open, too friendly, but harmless. Just another thing on the block Jason should look out for. He grabs his straw and starts to down his drink.

“Alright,” Jason finally caves after his fifth fry. “Grady’s a supreme lowlife, alright. He’s not someone you should ever try to get involved with, even on a dare. This is real stuff not something for your prep school hazing rituals or whatever. I’m serious.” His voice deepens, becomes urgent in a way, like he’s trying to keep the emotion out, but it leaks through. “Those guys can’t be your friends if they have you looking for him. Grady hates everyone. And he hates gays the most.”

Dick coughs his soda back up. “Excuse me,” he gasps, choking on Zesti and disbelief. “What?”

“Those friends of yours were trying to get you killed.”

“How. How. Why?” he manages between coughs.

“How do I know you’re gay? Man, you come on strong. Like, it’s ridiculous. I thought you were looking for more than drugs that night if you know what I mean.”

Fortunately, Dick can’t see his expression because he’s too busy staring at the back of his eyelids. He can feel the embarrassment prickling over his cheeks that must be red as coals right now. Not only because Jason thinks Dick’s been hitting on him this entire time (and so did his boys, Dick realizes suddenly) but because his performance work is clearly rusty.

“I’m not gonna knock you for it,” Jason continues. “Just. Just be careful, alright. And stay away from all of this shit.”

Dick hears the flutter of a bill landing on the table and beside him, Jason’s body begins to shift away. “Wait,” he says, grasping at him. “Just wait.” He opens his eyes wide making sure Jason can see the truth of them and his damningly long lashes are not involved at all. “I’m not.”

Jason’s gaze sweeps over the hand wrapped around his wrist and snorts. “Of course not.”

“I’m not,” says Dick after practically tossing Jason’s arm back to him. “But I was thinking about what you said that night. You’re right. They’re not my friends.”

“And you think I could be. We just talked about this. I’m not going to your prom. I’m not sneaking into your mansion at night. I’m not shocking your parents so the buy you the car you want instead of the one you got for your super sweet sixteen.”

“Just hang out with me.” Dick sounds a little desperate, but he doesn’t care. If Jason leaves then he’ll be out a solid lead and his pride will forever be wounded. “You act like I’m the only one with a chip on their shoulder here. I’m not a bad guy, honest. Come to a party with me and I can show you we’re not all bad.”

“What did I tell you about coming on strong?” Jason shakes his head. “When?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s one of those pop-up things. You get a code and a web address and then instructions from there.”

Jason’s eyes narrow that focused assessment back again and something flashes there briefly, something like triumph. Then Jason’s slouching again, groaning like he’s being dragged across glass.

“Fine. I’ll do this for you, rich boy, then you and me are through.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, old chum, it sounds like you got a date,” says Wally.

Dick throws himself onto his bed and groans into the phone.

“It can’t be all bad. You haven’t been out with anyone since you and Babs broke up, right?”

“Dated? No.”

“Wow, D. That answer means you've got stories to tell. Is this gonna be one of those ‘son of billionaire’ playboy stories or one of Batman’s super-hot femme fatales has a daughter stories?”

Dick snorts because when would he even had the time to lead that life and what kind of stories has Wally been spreading? Well, okay, there was that one time at a Swiss chalet…. “Neither because I’m a gentleman.”

“Yeah right.” Wally’s voice becomes faint then there’s a rattle of glass. Speedsters. Always running into the kitchen for a snack. “A gentleman dating dudes too, huh?”

“Wally, this is not why I’m calling you.”

“You asked me to tell you what I think about a situation. This is what I think. In fact, it’s what I’ve thought.” Wally’s next words sound chewy. Peanut butter and jelly on rye then. “Is he at least good looking?”

“Yeah,” sighs Dick then flinches. He answered that a little too quickly.

“Then have fun with it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presenting to you, after an embarrassing span of time, the final chapter in the Crimes at Night story. This chapter got way longer than I anticipated, so I cut it off at the end. There will be an epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bring it in guys. Bring it in closer. I am slapping palms and hugging necks because this story is functionally done. DONE. After ~~three~~ four years. Just checked when I posted the first chapter on tumblr. It was 2014! But 2019 is about me finishing what I started. And I am finished with this one!
> 
> Couldn't have done it without your support, your comments, kudos, and interest over the years. And I have a few more connected stories for this universe, so stay tuned for those after I revise the epilogue a final time. 
> 
> Special shot out to Volavi for the beta and the hand holding.

At eight o’clock sharp, Dick receives the address for tonight’s party, and he immediately sends Jason a message telling him to join him at the decoded address. 

Okay, immediately is a little too strong a word. First, Dick does the requisite chasing of the message’s origination points. Next, he dives into the social networks of the presumed and confirmed recipients in search of more avenues to candy pink. But immediately after that, he sends Jason the message and then paces up and down the bannisters for ten freaking minutes before receiving a thumbs up in response.

A thumbs up? Who sends back a thumbs up to an invitation. Groaning, Dick stalks up the wooden railing. He makes it to the fourth floor where Alfred stands on the landing, arms crossed. 

“Please abstain from sulking along the staircase, Master Dick. That kind of behavior is best left to the kitchens or below ground.”

“I’m not sulking.” 

“Of course not, Master Dick.” Alfred’s eyes shine with a knowing light. A retreat is in order.

Dick slides back down the bannister, socks gliding smoothly in slow escape. His phone still remains clenched tightly in his hand throughout the rest of the evening waiting for an additional reply.

He’s pondered that reply long enough to remain embarrassed about hours later, standing under the Gracy’s Department store sign. _Gracy’s: You’ll always find what you need and need what you find at Gracy’s_.

This week’s party is being thrown by the twin heirs to the Gracy fortune, Malachi and Marci. The venue is an old department store warehouse tucked quietly within the riverside portion of the fashiocarsonn district. Judging by the short line of teenagers and young adults sliding into the alley, there’s going to be a large pool of kids to wade through for leads. Dick really should’ve started narrowing his information pool an hour ago. He checks his watch one more time, huffing at the time. He’d asked Jason to meet him at ten. It’s nearly eleven.

If the lifestyle of a prep school kid in Gotham is socially exhausting during the school year, the summer before junior and senior year is a life-threatening nightmare of preparation courses, fundraisers, and parties. And honestly, for most of the exceedingly rich, fundraisers are parties that celebrate tax sheltering via social responsibility. He is so tired of parties. Maybe he was hoping that having someone at his side would make being Richie Grayson more appealing.

Who is he kidding? He just wanted to see the boy again.

Five more minutes. He’ll wait five more minutes, and if Jason doesn’t show up, he’ll let this thing with the Red Hood go. Besides, inviting Jason had been a cross between an ill-advised whim and an underdeveloped plan. He doesn’t need the company during what was technically an intel op. He didn’t want, as Jason had mentioned in his rant, something real.

Maybe B is right. Maybe his behavior had become more reflective of his time spent with Young Justice. Having no one with him on an infiltration mission should be an easy, focused exercise, but the idea of hitting another party alone leaves Dick feeling a little underwhelmed when all he wanted to do was stay whelmed.

He checks the time again. Six minutes have passed, but Dick already knows the time. He’d subdivided the additional sixty seconds in his head while watching the next group of friends stroll into the alley to the door security. The doors are closing in a half hour and no new guests will be allowed inside. 

Sighing, Dick edges to the dwindling line. He needs to go now. Right now. Now. He stares down at his feet, which refuse to budge. 

“Okay. I wanted a maybe date tonight, but if he doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to be here.” Admitting the truth stings, but it also gets him moving again. He turns his back to the street and the idea of his maybe date, because the mission. The mission always comes first. He heads towards the back of the line, shoulders hunched when something catches his attention. Shuffling steps echo at the mouth of the alleyway, and Dick stops to peer back.

Finally.

Jason approaches from the shadows, a tiny frown creasing his brow. In defiance of the hot weather, Jason wears a pair of jeans perfectly molded to his thighs and a thin colored tee layered over an equally thin white tank. A gold chain slips between his collarbones. He shuffles over the sidewalk in stark white sneakers that appeared a little too long. Definitely borrowed those from one of his friends. The fact that Jason dressed up for the occasion is almost enough to excuse his tardiness. Almost.

Dick opens his mouth in greeting, but he’s stopped by Jason’s frank gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. “Looking good, rich boy.”

“Thanks,” Dick replies, a small grin spreading across his lips. “You don’t look that bad yourself. The doors are about to close for the night. I’m glad you made it.”

“Yeah.” Jason frowns, eyes apologetic. “Look. The express stops running at eight and the 12 had another shut down. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Can we just,” Dick nods towards the line. “I’m ready to show you a good time.”

The frown on Jason’s face deepens, giving him a similar world-weary air from the night they’d first met. “Damn. I should’ve asked this up front. You’re not looking for me to score for you tonight, right? Because that ain’t happening. I don’t do that shit for no one, especially not you.”

Dick’s jaw drops. For some reason, Jason’s inference offends him on a personal level. Then he remembers their initial meeting and the persona he adopted. Richard Grayson is a frivolous, attention-seeking kid who is earnest and honest enough for a street-hardened gang member with a penchant for protecting people to want to protect him, even from himself. It’s backed up by the excessive bracelets and rings he has on his fingers, the low-slung jeans, the ironic tees. Still, he doesn’t want Jason to think so ill of this persona. After Dick discovers the distributor of the candy pink, he was thinking he might want to talk to Jason again. If their paths cross. 

The pause extends longer than Dick intends. Long enough for Jason to huff to himself and start moving like he was about to leave when he only just arrived. Dick reaches out to stop him.

“Oh. No, Jason. I know how we met. I know it didn’t look good, but really. I’m not into that scene.”

Jason relaxes slowly. “Alright, fine. I was just making sure we had an understanding.”

“Good. Now can we please go to the party?”

“Can you please let go of my hand?”

Dick looks down at where he loosely clasped Jason’s hand between his palms. He drops it instantly, thinking this grabbing Jason thing is a bad habit to pick up. “Sorry.”

“Didn’t know I was so irresistible.”

Dick shoves him lightly. “You’re really not.”

“From where I’m standing, I kind of am,” Jason says, smugly.

The door security waves a reader over the barcode waiting on Dick’s phone screen. Once the invite is verified and their IDs checked, they’re moved inside. The warehouse entrance is dark. Music pulses faintly in the distance. The line of party-goers funnels down a narrow flight of stairs that have Dick’s studies on Gotham City building code clambering into his head. They arrive on the concrete floor that opens to a freight elevator with wooden slats for doors. The doors open, and the music gets louder, something bright and bubbly. It’s the kind of music Richie Grayson loves, and Dick starts bopping into the elevator with Jason close behind. Their arms brush together then stay pressed while the wood doors shut, and the elevator slowly creaks taking them below ground. 

The basement is alive with people. Nearly two thousand kids ranging from late teens to early twenties dance, drink, and chill across an artfully arranged floor. There’s a bar in the back. The DJ is set at the front of the room on a sturdy platform, wearing a silver fox mask and dancing across their stage. Overhead mannequins in various fashion styles swing gently from the ceiling. The strobing lights and light fog give them room the kind of atmosphere most villains would pay dearly for.

“What the fuck?” Jason mutters.

“Yeah. The Gracy twins are still competing with Masie Hollingsworth’s Halloween party. Well, trying to compete.”

“Right,” Jason drawls. “Because that makes as much sense as what’s going on up there.”

“Don’t question it. Just selfie it.” Dick holds up his phone and leans into Jason’s shoulder. “Say ‘creepy mannequins don’t always come to life’.”

Jason laughs, startled, and Dick takes the picture and shows it to him. “Not bad.”

“Come on, I want to grab a couple more.” 

Dick takes them around the edges of the warehouse obsessively for selfies, but Dick captures many of the unknown faces on his pictures as well as the security hired for the event. Jason appears game enough, either posing with Dick at times or holding the camera for Dick when he spies someone with a possible link to candy pink. He and Jason talk as well as they can with the music throbbing in the air. It’s not easy. Their limited interactions made it clear that Jason warms to conversation slowly, but there’s some laughter, and neither of them look like they’re having a terrible time. In time, they complete a full circuit of the floor. Each picture taken has been captured by the Batcomputer and processed against the public social media images collected for the party. It’s good, but it’s not enough. Dick is about to start the circuit again, when Jason pulls stops. 

“So that’s what you do at theses parties? Take pictures all night?”

“Sometimes I talk to people too. Make new friends.” Dick watches Jason take in the crowd that’s mostly converged on the dance floor. The lights sweep high above blanketing their movements in heavy shadows, but Dick can make out the fierceness in most people’s movements, desperation in others, boredom in the rest. And then there’s the bodies entwined close, dancing sinuously, kissing with passion between bass drops and crescendos. 

“You get a lot of conversation out of them?”

Dick shrugs, because it’s honestly hit or miss. “We can dance if you want.”

Jason gives him a sharp look. “Yeah no. Maybe later,” he mutters. “But go ahead if you want. I’ll just get something to drink.”

“Hold on, Jason. I didn’t mean me and you,” But Jason already slid out of the radius where Dick’s voice would reach him, at least that’s what he told himself. Sighing, Dick turned the opposite direction. It was the break he needed anyway. Information to gather. A city to save. Robin needs to be on the case.

Winding through the crowd is easier without Jason at his side. He slips in and out of conversations seamlessly, feeding the right lines to get more gossip or placing himself at the fringe of party groups. The standard complaints about music and mood happened, who showed up to hook up with whom. Dick is more interested in the kids who reach furtively into their purses and pockets after slapping hands with a friend. He’d picked a couple pockets and came up with some numbers, but nothing concrete. Yet there are kids beginning to slow and grasping at invisible things in the air on the dance floor. Dick has been watching all night, and he hasn’t seen anything distributed. Where the hell is the candy pink coming from? And where is Jason? Dick’s kept an eye on him, and after grabbing his drink, Jason wandered around the party. Like Dick, he’s stayed at the fringe of friend groups, talking to different people here and there, his singularly intense gaze focused on a lot of different people, none of whom happen to be Dick. He checks again and spies Jason across the room talking to a group of older teens Dick doesn’t recognize. A girl with perfectly sandy beach waves laughs suddenly and leans into Jason’s side, bright eyes staring up at him. At least someone is having fun.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dick mutters to himself. “I’m on a mission.”

Rather than let his frustration mount, Dick takes a deep breath and looks at the congested floor again. Sometimes the best way to attack the a problem is to start at the beginning with fresh eyes and new questions. The answer will come in time.

It’s been just over an hour since he and Jason dropped into the basement, but already the mood is different. Perhaps it’s past midnight, when all the dark deeds really begin. The music reflects the mood, settling into a dark, throbbing groove that has the crowd sliding against one another. The bartenders are less discriminate about to whom they’re serving alcohol, and the security team seems to have faded away. That's an interesting question. Where did the security go?

Dick takes out his phone and checks his pictures. Every person previously captured wearing a security shirt is missing from the scene, and the watch posts Dick spied on his first pass through the makeshift club are gone. He sends a message. 

**B. Security is ghost, and pink is on the floor. Can’t be a coincidence.**

“Poor Richard Grayson. Already dumped by the rebound?”

Dick rolls his eyes before turning to his small audience. “Carson, Journey. Didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”

“I’d say the same. You’ve been scarily absent after your break up with the police commissioner’s daughter.”

Journey’s bubblegum-glossed lips smile cruelly. “She really broke your heart, huh?”

“It was a mutual decision,” Dick says, because it was a decision that they mutually agreed upon last Christmas once Barbara outlined her points. The biggest one being that Dick is still in high school while she’s about to start her second semester in college. It doesn’t hurt. Honest.

“Sure,” she drawls, completely disbelieving. “Everyone was so confused when you brought her to the formal. Like, she’s pretty, but destined to be a civil servant.”

Carson laughs. “Careful, Journey. You sound jealous.” 

“I am not,” she shouts, cheeks flushed.

“Is there a point to all this harassment?” Dick asks, bored. 

Carson’s lips bend into a frustrated moue. “You always ruin the fun, Grayson. Of course there’s a point to our visit. You slide out into West Gotham for a bit of rough and bring him to the party of the season—”

“Until Maise’s Halloween bash. I’ve heard rumors that it’s being held at an abandoned cemetery,” Journey adds.

“Yes, yes. Maise wins. We’re talking about Grayson, Journey, please keep it together. Where was I?” Carson’s gaze bobs into the middle distance. It’s hard to tell under these lights, but his eyes seem different. Cloudy, maybe. 

“But the point is Richie!” Carson’s voice breaks Dick’s concentration. “You can’t just go from the hot civil servant’s daughter to the hot gangbanger! Only rebels get to have fun.”

“I always thought you were straight,” Journey says.

“I never thought that for a moment,” Carson boasts. “I suppose this means your stock will rise now that you’re dating boys too, Richie. Which is a shame, really. I hate competition.”

“Stay away from him,” Dick warns. “He’s my friend, and he’s not here for the kind of bullshit we’d put him through.”

“We?” Carson leans forward, a feline grin spreading over his face. “Are you finally admitting to being one of us? After all the rejection you’ve put your classmates through, your inspired, insipid speeches, your preachy community building bullshit. You start hooking up with a poor boy and suddenly realize how you’re not a poor boy anymore.”

“Oh,” Journey says. “Carson. That’s. That’s too much.”

“Somebody needs to tell him. Somebody should.”

Dick takes the hand resting on his shoulder and tosses it aside. “You should stay away from me too, Cars. I’m not in the mood.”

Something of the truth must show in his face because Carson leans back, a weak laugh in his throat. “I’m just playing around. Lighten up, Richie! You’re just such a goody goody. I bet you didn’t even get stamped when you got in here.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Carson flashes the back of his hand, revealing a small red stamp that flickers under the flickering lights. A neon square sits next to it. A sticker.

“Those are the stamps for the bar,” Dick says. “Your fake ID passed security?”

Carson rolls his eyes. “Anything can with a flash of cash, Richie, don’t pretend that you don’t know this. And you get more than a drink.”

Journey pulls out an assortment of items from her bag. “Glow-in-the-dark condoms. Half-off drinks at the afterparty bar. Stickers.” She peels free a neon square and slaps it against Dick’s cheek. “Here take this and a condom. Maybe they’ll help you lighten up.” She says this with a final condescending pat.

“Hey, babe. These guys bothering you?” booms a loud voice. Jason steps into their circle bodily separating Dick from his classmates. He tilts his chin up and stares at Dick’s classmates through hooded eyes. The set of his shoulders and the soft sheen of sweat and the shadows that dance over him make Jason look very dangerous. And very hot. 

“Forget everything I said, Grayson," Carson whispers. "If all the boys on the west side look like that I'll definitely go slumming with you.”

Jason crowds forward teeth bared. “The fuck you saying to me, asshole?”

Now it’s Dick’s turn to smoothly insert himself in front of Jason’s body. He nudges gently, and after a moment, Jason steps away. “They were just leaving,” Dick says, wanting to keep Jason away from this situation. Jason only glowered at all of them before shaking some of his anger away.

“Nah,” Jason says, voice calm. “I promised you a dance, right? Let’s dance.” He tugs Dick into the crowd leaving Carson and Journey’s stunned silence. 

The path Jason takes is direct, couples, feet, dancers, he charges past with a glare for an apology. Dick trots behind him shocked by the hand wrapped around his, the gentle squeeze now and then to reassure Jason that Dick’s following. It makes Dick flush. He tugs at his shirt feeling a burst of warmth shooting through his limbs.

They reach a spot on the dance floor away from the massive crowd where the lights barely reach. Dick’s eyes want to follow the trails, but Jason’s hand moves to his waist. He’s tugged closer, and this is nice. He wanted this. Dick brings his hands to Jason’s shoulders and squeezes. They’re broad, lean, good. He squeezes them again.

“You’re my hero,” he says seriously, smiling when Jason looks away, flustered. 

“And you’re getting pretty handsy there, rich boy. Thought you wanted to dance.”

“I do. With you. You left though. I started to get lonely.”

“Yeah. I imagine it can get real lonely hanging with this crowd.” Jason’s forehead creases thoughtfully. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re really popular or if everyone hates you. But all the kids from Gotham Prep I ran into had a story about ‘Richie’, and they’ve been dying to share.”

“Can’t it be both?”

“I guess. Either way, you’ve got a strange group of friends.”

“I know a bunch of kids here from school or social functions, but I wouldn’t call anyone my friend. My friends are pretty nice people.”

“Yeah. You seem like a good kid. So why are you even here?”

“I’m showing you how the other half lives, remember?”

“No, seriously. I mean, these people are assholes. You don’t have to prove anything to them about anything.” Jason’s gaze is as earnest as his voice, but the words seem stronger than just Dick. Maybe they’re for Jason as well.

“I guess. Feels like I need to prove something to myself though.” Dick winces, unsure how that slipped through his finely tuned filters. But it’s true. Elementary school hadn’t been that bad but experiencing the shift in his peers from middle school to high school had been astonishing. The schoolyard taunts returned, the strange attempts to bully and coerce him into friend groups. Dating. Getting the grades. Achieving all that he could in school since he had the opportunity. 

Absolutely nothing about his life had ever been normal, but he wanted this part to be. He didn’t want to spend every waking moment of his life fighting. He didn’t want to wear the mask of Richie Grayson, longed to be just Dick.

"I don't want to give into them. I can't. It's more than letting them win. It's letting myself down. Me and the few people in my life that actually matter. But sometimes, it's so tempting to show them what I'm really made of." 

“I know that feeling,” Jason mutters.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I shouldn’t have brought you to the party knowing how the cliques react to me dating. And I know," Dick rushes to add, "We're just here as friends. Soon to be friends, but. You looking like you do showing up with me instead of Babs. I should've expected talk."

"Uh yeah." Jason clears his throat. "Babs. Your girlfriend, right?”

“Ex,” Dick replies. “And yeah. It was worse than the paps following us. Sometimes I can just. Feel the eyes on me.” Dick’s eyes dart around searching. “It feels like they’re all looking at us.”

Jason’s hands slid up his back. “Just relax a little. No one really cares about what you’re doing anymore.”

“But they’re already trying to get to you.” Dick plucks at the stitching along Jason’s shoulders, worried that he sounds paranoid but unable to stop the words from coming out. “They’re always watching me.”

He can feel Jason’s breath puff against his lips. Oh, Dick thinks. They’re so close. His eyes dart down to Jason’s mouth, which is very plump and a little pink and near Dick’s own. He closes his eyes, because they’re entirely too tempting, and Dick has already been rejected once tonight. Jason’s words melt across his cheek. 

“Then let’s give them something to see.” 

A strong hand strokes down his back and then pushes Dick closer. He takes it as an invitation and tucks his head against Jason’s perfect shoulder.

Here in Jason’s arms, he feels happy and light. Relaxed like he hasn’t been in ages. Relaxed. Dick mouths the word, laughing a little. There’s just something funny about a word with the letter “x” in it. There’s something funny about the root of the word. Lax and relax. Their definitions overlap in some ways, like Jason and Dick’s bodies, swaying and rolling against one another. Dancing. They’re dancing when at the beginning of the night, Jason had all but run away to avoid it. They’re lax now. It’s a good feeling. Dick feels so good right now.

“You’re real great coming here with me, Jason. Didn’t think I’d have a good time tonight, but I am.”

“I ditched you.”

“You came back for me.”

“That girl looked like she slapped you.” Jason sounded incensed all over again. His fingers slide up Dick’s back as if testing for bruises. Dick sighs at the gentle touch.

“Journey. She just wanted to give me a sticker.” Dick tries to lift his head, but it feels too heavy. Why does he feel so heavy? 

“A sticker?”

“Yeah. ‘s’on my cheek. Twenty-one and up got them. Passed out by security.”

“Stickers, huh?” Jason murmurs thoughtfully. “Why give out stickers when you’ve already stamped to get drinks?”

It’s the tone of Jason’s voice that catches Dick’s attention that and the question. It’s a good question. Relevant in some way Dick can’t bring himself to recognize because he has more important questions. Like what kind of cologne was Jason wearing and why were his fingers so long? Dick reaches for the hand clasped loosely at his hip and lifts it for further examination. 

“What are you doing, man?”

Another good question. Dick parts his lips to reply, but. Jason’s fingers. They look good. Strong, thick, big. He wants them. In his mouth.

“Holy shit, Dick, what are you fucking doing?” 

Dick considered the panicked question, and after a soft suck to the salty fingers resting against his tongue, decided he’s doing exactly what he wants. He’s about to tell Jason this very thing, when a loud bang sounds from the opposite end of the room. 

Both Dick and Jason swing their heads around, Dick sucking excitedly, as a they peer at the DJ platform. A tall figure with slick blond hair strides across the stage, fingers jabbing at the fox masked DJ. A huge push, and the DJ falls from view. A number of party-goers seem to be scrambling backwards, the slow trickle before the tide. The music ends, and the room is filled with a confused buzz. Then the mic cuts on, reverb flaring through the speakers.

“Is this thing on? Mic check. Yo. This is good.”

Through narrowed eyes, Dick makes out a young man in his mid-twenties, hazel eyes and soft, curly hair shaved at the side wearing a black mask over the lower half of his face. He moves and sounds different from the other people in the attendance. Dangerous. Around them, a few startled guests murmur about security, but they’re not going to come. Security is gone. Dick starts pushing towards the stage. 

“Yo, it’s ya boy, Blaze-D interrupting your party broadcast to give a shout out to a certain special someone tonight. I’ve got a message from Grady to P-poppin’ Preston Swarthmore.” Blaze-D’s voice turns hard. “He says your time is up buddy.”

There are some shouts from the crowd in response protesting the interruption. A few braver people try to approach the stage, but two thick-necked men the size of industrial washing machines force them back. They didn’t look like the security Dick saw before doors closed. This could be real bad. It takes three tries before he finds the small receiver behind his ear, and Dick frown at his fingers, which seem to be curling and stretching on their own accord. 

“B,” he whispers, rushing through the crowd. “I think we have a problem.”

Batman answers immediately. “I’m on my way.”

Blaze-D skips across the stage, hand curled at his ear, encouraging them with jeering laughter. Dick can’t quite hear the shouts, but Blaze-D responds to a few of them, voice heavy through the speakers.

“Funny you should say that asshole, but I know Preston is here tonight. And he better get his conniving, weasel ass to the stage before we start taking cash from you guys. You see, P-poppin’ is very good at moving product. But he is not so good at ensuring the profit goes to the right hands. And we’ve come to collect.” Blaze-D pauses, leaning into the crowd. He grins, teeth shining in a crocodile’s grin. “Asshole over here keeps asking questions, which is good. We should be curious about the world around us, right? Public TV and shit. Not that you’ve ever watched that. He’s asking why he should pay off some other guy’s debt. The answer is simple. I’ve got a gun.”

The gun appears, small and lethal under the flashing lights. Blaze-D lifts it above his head and fires a single shot. The loud pop is electric, mesmerizing the entire room in shocked silence. And then the silence is broken by a piercing scream. Several shrieks chorus, and the crowd begins to rush towards the exits.

Blaze-D looks out on the chaos, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He brings the mic up. “I don’t know why you’re all running. That was the cue to lock this shit down. Get on stage, Preston. You have until the cattle stops their stampede.”

“Fucking idiot,” Jason mutters, somehow right behind Dick. He grabs Dick’s elbow and drags him close. “Come on. We’ve got to find a way out of here.”

Big, handsome, kind Jason. He’s strong enough to drag Dick a couple steps before he can dig in his heels. 

“No, no, no. We can’t leave, Jason. We can’t. We have to do something. Calm the situation before someone gets hurt.” He glances up into Jason’s eyes and finds them close, wide and dark staring into his eyes.

“What?” Jason asks, voice very low. 

“We have to help. Someone could get trampled,” Dick explains.

“Someone could get shot.”

“Better me than them,” Dick says, and then realizes he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“WHAT?” Jason’s startled squawk is loud, but the distraction is enough for Dick to wriggle free. He darts between a stampeding couple and closes the distance to the platform. 

Two more heavy set men guard the short staircase leading up to the stage. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Dick twists his head and shoulders loosening them in preparation for a quick blitz. He’s not at all surprised when a hard shoulder knocks into his. Jason pants gently against his ear.

“Go to the halls south of the bathroom. They’re probably the safest place right now. You might be able to work open a window. Help some kids get out,” Dick suggests before charging forward.

The first man barely had time to draw breath before Dick is on him, striking hard with his fist first, then his knee. He leaps up, foot wheeling in a roundhouse kick that sends the guard to the ground. He lands with a thud. Dick almost follows him down. Dick sweeps his hair back from his face, eyes searching for the second threat, but that tiny move pitches his stomach. He stumbles a step, which in sidesight, is the right move. He barely dodged that punch. The second man-shaped appliance swings again, but he stumbles, thrown off balance by Jason barreling into his side.

“Nice,” Dick shouts. He hooks his foot between the assailants foot, slides under his guard, and bends forward, using the motion to help flip the man to the ground. Dick wrenches the arm, earning a pained yelp, and then lands a solid blow to the man’s temple. He goes out like a light.

Standing is a bit of a problem. Dick feels dizzy. Dizzy but exhilarated. This fight is so easy. This mission is so easy. Batman should let him run his own mission ops all the time. He turns in time to see Jason throwing his shoulder into the first guy’s chest. Jason follows with a hard jab, jab, and a left hook. The guy slides to his knees with a moan.

Jason shakes out his hand, wincing, before turning a suspicious gaze towards Dick. “Where did you learn to fight like that.” 

“Self-defense lessons,” Dick says. “Bruce and I took lessons to learn how to defend ourselves better after I was kidnapped.”

It's a standard line he's used before, and for a moment, it works.

“Yeah? Well you leave yourself open for all kinds of…. Wait. What? You were. You’ve been _kidnapped_?” Jason’s expression is a mixture of fury and shock, but Dick can’t dwell on it. He’s on a mission.

With the two men down, the stairs are free to climb. Dick darts up the steps in two quick leaps and lands lightly on the balls of his feet. Blaze-D doesn't hear him arrive because his attenion is focused outwards. At this vantage point, Dick can see the true chaos rippling through the crowd. Already, several kids lie crouched and huddled together on the floor from the stampede. Many of the partiers gather against the basement’s few lit exits, pushing and shoving as they try to flee the danger. Someone has to stop this.

Hands raised, Dick approaches Blaze-D. He gauges a few yards distance, and then clears his throat to alert the gunman of his presence.

“Excuse me, Blaze-D? Can I talk to you?”

Blaze-D spins around immediately, staring Dick down his sights. He relaxes slightly seeing that Dick is unarmed. 

“Where did you come from?”

“Uh. The stairs?” Dick says, pointing helpfully towards over his shoulder.

Blaze-D eyes him, suspiciously. “You Preston?”

There’s an easy answer and a complicated answer. Dick knows this. He’s just not sure which one is the right answer. It’s kind of hard to think right now. He wants to stop but he can’t. Go with the gut, Grayson. Dick takes a deep breath.

“Um. Yes?”

“No, he’s not fucking Preston,” Jason shouts, stumbling up the stairs. “Stop running off. You’re going to get hurt.”

“Are you Preston?” The gun slides to target Jason, who stares at it and the owner with his world-weary glare.

“No,” says Jason, disdain dripping from his voice.

“Then why the fuck are you onstage?”

Dick edges forward slightly bringing the attention back to himself. “Because I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. You said you wanted us to pay up for Preston, right? How much does he owe? I can. My phone.” Dick pulls out his phone, waving it wildly. “I can transfer whatever you need to let us all get out of here safely.”

“A million dollars.” Blaze-D tosses the number out without a shred of confidence. It’s fine. Dick can work with an obviously inflated number. He rapidly calculates the money in his emergency funds. 

“I think I can do that. But I can only do it electronically. Will it transfer to you? A million dollars?”

“A million dollars?” Jason echoes, incredulous. “There is no way you guys let a kid loose with that much candy pink.”

Blaze-D swings the gun back and forth between them, expression shifting from agitated to amused. “Seriously, who the fuck are you two?”

“I’m nobody,” says Dick. “Just want to make sure no one gets hurt tonight.”

“Nobody with million dollars. And who’s he? Your boyfriend?”

“God, I wish. He’s so freaking hot,” Dick whispers. Wait. He didn’t whisper that at all.

It’s a strange tableau he stands in, the screams in the background, the shocked silence coming from an J-list Gotham bad guy holding a gun on him, and Jason’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes staring at a point above Dick’s head. It can’t get worse than this, Dick thinks, mind racing for a solution to this mess. And then, of course it does.

“Robin, I’m in position.”

“Finally,” Dick mutters, just as a loud blast rocks the walls. 

The cargo doors in the ceiling fly open, and Batman sails through the air. 

“Oh fuck,” Blaze-D whimpers. “No one said anything about the Batman. Fuck!” Blaze-D focus centers on the dark shadow sweeping down on the few remaining men who apparently arrived with Blaze-D. It’s enough for Dick to make his move.

He disarms Blaze-D easily. The gun slides over the platform before disappearing under the tablecloth covering the turntable station. He follows with a kick and a punch. They land weakly. Dick stares at his fist, betrayed.

“What’s wrong with, ah!” Dick crumples at the hard blow hitting his chest. He bends over, winded. “Oh,” he gasps. “That one got me."

“Dick! Duck!”

An easy enough order. Dick spins low. A whoosh of quick air speeds by his cheek. He sees Blazed- and he sees Jason, fists up in a sloppy guard, but he’s quick on his feet and his punches have power behind them. Blaze-D curses each time they land on his body. Dick brings his heel down on Blaze-D’s shoulder, and he backs away, sneering.

“That’s it, you fucking punks. You’re both going down.”

Dick glances at Jason, who cocks an eyebrow. They move swiftly, bodies flowing around each other, dodging Blaze-D’s attacks and making room for the other’s own momentum forward. They push Blaze-D to the limit, and then to the ground.

“Holy shit,” Jason mutters, coming to stand over where Dick kneels astrid Blaze-D’s back trying to restrain him with some of the wiring. “Holy shit, we did it!” 

Dick grins at him. “Yeah. We did.”

Blaze-D groans at them, cursing, but Jason only kicks his side lightly. “Don’t even think about getting back up.”

In the distance, the screams have faded to cheers and supportive shrieks of, “Go Batman,” and “Oh my god is that Batman,” to, “Batman’s here hide the weed.” And beyond that, Dick hears the lonesome wail of police sirens. Even while feeling a little off, he managed to disarm a direct lead to Grady, prevent casualties, and keep Jason safe. They really did do it.

He’s slow to rise to his feet, but Dick manages with grace, and Jason’s hand under his elbow. Dick still feels good. Elated even. Sweaty, a little dizzy, short of breath for some bizarre reason he can’t quite reason away. His thoughts scatter and spread like bugs under a rotting wood. 

“You okay?” Jason brushes Dick’s hair back, touches his hot cheeks.

“Yeah. Yeah. We have to help Batman.”

Jason restrains him with an arm around his waist. “How about no. Batman’s already got the other goons or whatever.”

“Oh good. Okay. We need to talk to the police. Give our statements.”

Jason’s brows rise to his hairline. “You’re serious right now, aren’t you? I know you are, but fuck, rich boy. You need to get out of here.” He starts hustling them off the stage. They move faster than Dick is mentally prepared to go. He nearly falls down the steps and trips over his feet when Jason starts dragging him back to the bathrooms.

“You were listening,” he mumbles.

“Of course I was.”

“Then why didn’t you get out of here?”

“And leave you alone? You really need to get some real friends, rich boy. Now come on. If the cops catch you like this, you’ll be arrested.”

“Like what?”

“Like. High, Dick.” Jason swings him around and shakes him. “I’m so fucking pissed right now, but I know it’s just. Someone slipped you something. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“Jason. Jay. J. Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s slipped me anything.”

“Look at me,” Jason cups his face, dragging his face into the pale light. The light is so bright. Dick squints and whines trying to pull away. “Look at me, rich boy. Come on. Your eyes.” He sighs heavily. “Candy pink.”

“No. I don’t. I’m not high. Am I?” Dick frowns. “How did someone slip me candy pink? I didn’t take. I didn’t see a single pill tonight.” Jason’s thumb brushes his cheek. They both breath in sharply, exclaiming in a single voice.

“The sticker!” 

Jason rips the small square from his cheek and flings it away. “Fuck. I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

“We don’t know. We don’t know for sure. I mean. I feel fine. Great in fact.” He’d know if he’s been drugged after all. One doesn’t become Robin without withstanding a barrage of poison identification and immunity building to some that his system can withstand now. There will be more in his future, and gosh, he hopes he’s said none of this outloud. He touches his lips but they’re shut. He touches Jason’s lips instead, and they’re softer than he’d thought. Not that he’s been thinking about it for real, but in this moment, yes. Yes he is.

“Come on. We have to get you out of here before the cops find us.”

“No, I want to do something else. Something to prove to you that I haven’t. I’m not. I’m not into drugs, Jason. Let me prove it to you.” 

“Yeah, sure, Dickie. You can prove to me outside.” Jason tries dragging Dick another few feet, but Dick goes so limp his toes drag. Take that Jason Todd.

"I can prove it to you now," Dick insists. 

"How?" 

Dick pauses, mouth open, but no answer appears. Coming up with the right way to prove his sobriety is vexing. He knows something about his behavior is off, maybe even impaired, but not like Jason says. Dick would've known if someone tried to inject him or force feed him pills. Or throw dangerous gass-filled capsules at him. Half of his vigilante career is avoiding chemicals, poisons, toxins, and drugs. Dick curls a nail along the edge of Jason’s frown, and suddenly it becomes clear. He really is brilliant sometimes. 

“Make out with me!”

Jason stares at him, lovely mouth parted, and then he laughs. It’s a warm sound that sends tingles through Dick’s body.

“I like your laugh,” he whispers. “It makes me tingle.”

“God, rich boy. You are fucking unreal. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Jason starts dragging him again. Dick can’t keep up. His legs feel like watery noodles, the kind that only appear when Bruce cooks pasta on Alfred’s nights off and forgets they’re on the stove. Overcooked noodle-y legs. They can’t keep Dick up. He stumbles, goes to his knees. Jason’s beside him in an instant, grabbing his hand.

“Dick?”

“Red Hood. I don’t feel so good.”

“Shit, shit, shit. You’re skin’s ice cold, Dick. You were burning up a few seconds ago.”

“Need help.” Dick moans when he’s pulled into Jason’s arms and lowered to the ground. Jason puts him on his back, head elevated and starts opening his shirt.

“Just keep breathing for me, rich boy. Slow and steady. Fuck. Fuck. Oh Fuck!” Jason takes a deep breath, and then cups his hands around his mouth. His voice carries over the crowd. “Help! I need some help over here. Batman! Over here.”

The shout is painfully loud. Dick tries to put a finger to his lips and shush Jason, but he can't quite make his limbs work. Or his mouth for some reason. He sputters helplessly while Jason squeezed his hand.

A dark shadow swept over them. Batman’s stone visage glared down at him in the expression Dick came to know as worried and repressing it. 

“B. Beeeeee,” he whispers, trying to reassure him. He was going to be fine. Or he would if the room stops floating. Strong hands cup his face and tilt it to the flashing lights.

“This is Richard Grayson,” Batman rumbles.

“You know him?” Jason sounds so suspicious. Not a good sign.

“I’ve rescued him before.”

“Shit. The kidnapping.”

Batman hums, but you’d have to know him to understand this is an approving sound. Dick must have done something right. He wishes he knew what it was. “Richard appears to be in distress.”

“Yeah. Those dudes. They slapped some patch on him. I think it was candy pink.”

“Where is it?”

Jason points at the ground, and Batman picks up the adhesive square.

“Symptoms prior to my arrival.”

“Dizziness. Started to sweat and said everything looked pink. Lost his balance. And then he tried.” Jason’s voice cracks.

“And then what?”

Jason scrubs a hand through his hair ruffling the slicked look until he looks frustrated, worried. “I think it was like. You know. Saying stupid shit. Lowered inhibitions,” Jason mutters. 

“And this behavior was different prior to the patch?” 

Dick groans, pained by the sweats and Batman’s tone. He can’t even defend himself right now.

“Hey! That’s my friend you’re talking about, Batman,” Jason says, coming up to his knees. “Put a little respect in your voice.”

Through hazed eyes, Dick makesout the spread of Jason’s chest and his chin jutted out over his body, curved over, protective. From Batman. Suddenly, Dick finds it hard to breath on top of everything else. He forced his hand to move, to rise from the ground and cover the one Jason had in his own hand. Jason drops his gaze, blue eyes snapping furiously. And then they soften.

“Hey there, rich boy. You’re gonna be okay. Just relax while I get you some real help from the paramedics or something, alright. We’ll be back to pissing your guardian off in no time. I’ll even come to your sweet-sixteen and make out with you on the front lawn or whatever.”

Dick manages a strangled laugh. “Already. Sixteen.”

“Fine. Ruin another one of my plans,” Jason says, voice cracking just a little. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure something out. Just. Just hold on. Hold on to me.” Jason’s grip is warm, firm, and sure.

Dick holds on tightly.


	4. Epilogue

The zeta tube announces the last Young Justice member returning to Mount Justice in a brilliant flash of light. The team saunters easily into the main hall chatting with boisterous voices. Dick slinks along behind them, sliding the cloak from his shoulders. A pleased smirk lingers at his lips.

It’s a rare day that the mission goes as smoothly as this one did. No alarm tripped, no guard alerted, a simple extraction that finished exactly as planned. Those kinds of missions should be celebrated. Dick’s not the only one who feels this way. Kaldur faces the group, a faint smile lighting his eyes.

“Pizza run?” Kaldur asks. “After the success of day’s mission, I think we’ve earned it.”

Wally spins on his heels, hands raised in triumph. “Aw yeah pizza run! First one to the showers gets a whole pie to himself.” He disappears in a rush of air only to return seconds later wearing jeans and his layered shirts.

Artemis’ gaze is cutting. “Do you even let the water hit you?”

“You can’t harsh my good mood,” Wally says, smirking. “I get a pizza all to myself.”

M’gann floats to join them. “You do, Wally. But I’m afraid you missed our decision. The first one to finish their shower has to pay for all the pizza, including the one you get all to yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait. How did you guys make this decision without me?” Wally protests.

“Very easily,” Artemis says, arms crossing her chest.

Wally narrows his gaze, suspicious. “How? I was only in the shower for seven seconds.”

“The fact that you know how little time you spent cleaning yourself is also disturbing.”

“I’m part of the conservation movement,” Wally says.

“Oh yeah?” Artemis scoffs, moving into Wally’s space.

“Hello, Megan!” M’gann interrupts the heated exchange with her cutely chagrined smile. “We did it through the mental link, Wally.”

“Oh. Well. I don’t think it’s fair. Do you think it’s fair, Kaldur?”

Kaldur shrugs. “I do. It will be nice to see someone else pick up the tab at Tony’s.”

“But, but,” Wally darts over to Connor.

“What about my man, SB? He’s probably dying to take us out tonight? He’s the one who reached a hero milestone tonight.”

Connor glares down at him. “Did I?”

“Yes! First mission with no hiccups. They’re rare, like unicorns, double rainbows, and your smile.”

“All the more reason for you to treat me." Connor offers his broad back to the room. “I’m going to take my shower now. Slowly.”

_Nice._

Artemis’ voice broadcasts loudly, but the sentiment is echoed within the mental link.

 _We can all hear you_ , M’gann thinks, laughter in her tone.

_I know._

The exchange starts a wave of bickering from their friends that halts Connor’s movements. Dick’s about to join in when a spray of alerts sound from his wrist. Three Robin heads bounce up mouths open and closing mockingly. “Oh no,” he hisses. “I’m going to be late.”

Dick’s hair flutters wildly. That and the burt of superheated air is enough to alert him to an incoming speedster. Wally’s leaning over his shoulders before he completes the thought.

“What’s the matter?” Wally asks. “Did we spin the mission too slow for your vigilante sensibilities?”

Dick shakes Wally’s weight from his arm. “Please. We did it better and faster than planned. Connor, M’gann, and I had the cypher extracted before you and finished the perimeter sweep.”

“Then why are you worried about being late when we’re back so early?” Wally tugs Dick under his arm, stalling him from joining Superboy in the showers.

“It’s important.”

“Important. Like creepy Gotham villain important or hot date important”

“Neither.”

M’gann floats to his side, a small moue of compassion on her face. “Is there a problem, Robin?”

“No. Not really,” Dick sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. He stares at his friends, who look back expectantly. “Actually, would you mind if I skip out on the pizza? I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

Kaldur comes close and rests his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “If it is an emergency that we can assist you with, Robin—”

“No. It’s not, Kal. It’s some loose ends I need to tie up for this case I was working with Batman.”

“Loose ends?”

“A witness. Kinda,” Dick hedges. “I wanted to check back in with him.”

“Aaaah. That case. The one you closed what, two months ago?” Wally smirks knowingly. “Calm down everyone. It’s just a date.”

“It is not a date.”

He’d only seen Jason one time since his overnight stay at the hospital, and even that meeting took a bit of… Dick liked to call it exaggerating messaging via text. Jason had eyed Dick and the scrolling movie theater lights with the same suspicious glare Dick found himself under when they’d met on Park Row.

The exchange had been brief.

“You said you had something of mine?”

“Uh yeah,” Dick had said, pulling the small black square with the yellow bat symbol emblazoned on the side. “Here.”

“You had my wallet? How did you get my wallet?” Jason had said.

“Not sure. Just did. Um. Yeah.” Dick stuttered to a stop, unable to explain why it had been in his personal effects, but his fingerprints had been all over it. And maybe Dick had a hazy recollection of wanting something to remember Jason by. Candy Pink Dick had been a nightmare. Jason stared at his blushing face and shrugged before tugging the wallet from his fingers.

After checking the contents, Jason had tucked it into his back pocket. “Thanks for returning it.” He watched Dick shuffle his feet for a second, and it was like he knew Dick’s thoughts were a tangled mess, because he reached out, hovering so close to his cheek, Dick felt the heat, and then veering to land on Dick’s shoulder. “You alright, rich boy?”

Dick had froze at the weight in that touch, the stillness it brought within him, and a hopeless smile stretched across his face. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Cool. Well. I’m gonna go,” Jason said, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “Uptown isn't really my thing. Take care of yourself.”

He left before Dick could process the expression on his face, the wistfulness there, the determination in his jaw and the stride he took away from Dick. He didn’t even look back.

Dick had given the two movie tickets away, sure that was the last he’d see of Jason Todd. The stubborn will inside him, the one that made sure he'd never fall, refused to give up on the feeling he had in his chest when Jason appeared out of the crowd. He’d send a random text every once and a while. They were random greeting, funny items that caught his attention, and some news like, "hey, did you see the police arrested Grady?" He was sure they were a lost cause until a single reply came out of the blue.

Second chances don’t come very often, and Dick’s ready to make the most of this one.

Still, he's sure this isn't a date.

 

* * *

 

Phone pressed to his ear, Dick slides from the alley into the streaming foot traffic of Metro Avenue, the main site for the relics of Gothams philanthropic past. A city park, several museums, the entrance to the public performance stadium, and the main branch of the city library stand along the tree-lined thoroughfare.

Tourists herd from one landmark to the other in heavy, slow-moving clumps. Dick navigates them easily, speeding past the guides and people stopping in their tracks to stare at the clear autumn sky, a bright day in gray-tinged Gotham, or the glossy pages of their city map, a phone with the swirling crowd and stone to capture the moment.

Dick has albums full of random moments. Pictures help ensure the details in his memories stay vivid and clear. His recent favorites are from a party six weeks ago at a summer party, when the whole of Gotham seemed ready to explode. Two boys from opposite ends of the city standing together, cheek to cheek in the haze of an underground party. Looking back, those few pictures seemed innocuous, normal even, when the night had been anything but.

The Gotham Metropolitan Library sits atop a mountain of white marble steps. Dick jogs bounds up the incline, hand busy racking his hair into something presentable. The sounds of the busy streets fade away the instant Dick steps inside the building. It’s quiet in the way all libraries are, faded light, slow-moving steps on the stone floors, and the sigh of each opened book causes time to stand still.

Dick’s head swivles from let to right searching through the moderate members of the library’s patrons. A flash of red catches his eye. Attention captured, the red sleeve lowers. Jason sits under the window, the last rays of the sun sliding through his dark hair, a glint of fire over dark water. He tips his head back acknowledging Dick’s slow rush to him.

“You made it,” Dick says in greeting.

Jason unfurls from the couch and slings his backpack over one shoulder. “You said you needed my help.”

“I do. You’re an English genius, and my essay needs some help.”

“I never said that,” Jason protests.

Dick remembers how proud Jason sounded when talking about the writing program he’d been selected at the Gracy twin’s party. “That’s what I heard. Come on, I know where the best tables are.”

Dick takes them down stairs to the library basement. The ceilings are tall down here with the same carchways and mosaic tile cascading across the floors.

“Never been down here before.” Jason’s voice is hushed, and his head tilts back to stare at the swirling stars on the ceiling.

“Most people don’t. The archives are down here. It’s quiet. Private.”

Jason shoots him a glance but keeps walking. They have their pick of unoccupied rooms. They slide into the seats, flinching slightly when the chair scrapes along the ground. The sound bounces across the cavernous walls.

“Kind of loud, huh?”

Jason settles his back on the table and watches Dick pull out his laptop and notebook. “Why’d you want to meet here?”

Libraries are neutral ground and a place where Jason feels at ease. But those are the most pressing tactical reasons. “Thought you’d come if I met you halfway,” Dick says. “Plus, they have the best hot cocoa in the city?”

“What about your boy? Alfred? You said he makes the best hot cocoa in Gotham.”

“He does. But technically, the manor is outside city limits, so my previous statement stands true. The library has the best hot cocoa in the city. Let me get you some.”

“It’s your money, rich boy.”

When Dick returns to the table, he finds Jason curled over the essay, a frown of concentration creasing his forehead. Jason sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, then starts marking across the paper. The blue pen dances quickly leaving a trail of marks through the paragraph. Wincing, Dick sits two mugs on the table.

“That bad, huh?”

“Hmm?” Jason blinks at him slowly before recognition kicks in. “Oh no, man. No. Some of your sentences can be trimmed is all. And your grammar is petty shitty.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I can help with that, but the topic. I can follow your argument and all, but I don’t know, man,” Jason pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help you all that much here. Gotham Prep is like light years ahead of even the good schools.”

Dick makes a noncommittal sound. “We can figure it out.”

“And you’re gonna help me with my trig?”

“Of course. Mathlete,” Dick says, jabbing a thumb into his chest.

With a mighty pen and healthy disdain for Dick’s reliance of introductory adverb clauses—”Every paragraph on this page starts with one, and every sentence in this paragraph has one. Sentence variety, rich boy. You’ve got to work on that.”— Jason cuts through the final pages of the essay. Dick concentrates on the suggestions, takes time to write out the points he explained to Jason but concentrating is hard when Jason is so near.

Halfway through the first math problem, Dick realizes there’s a distinct lack of pressure in Jason’s presence. He doesn’t have to be perfect Richard Grayson, billion heir brat Richie Grayson, or Robin right now. He’s just Dick, a poor little rich boy looking for companionship in an unlikely place. That’s not a facet of himself, not an act. It’s real. And it doesn’t hurt him to be real right now. In fact, it might be worth the effort if Jason’s sly grin is the reward. Jason who looks at him with with exasperation, sometimes with dubious judgement, but most of the time with a soft spark in the corner of his eyes. Like he sees Dick, knows he’s real.

“You need to loosen up, Jay. Math is fun.”

“Yeah, no.” Jason blows the eraser bits from his page.

“Let me prove it to you.” Dick waits for Jason to wave him on before breaking out his favorite math puns. “What do trigonometry and beaches have in common?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Wrong. They both _tan gents_.”

Jason shoots him a look. “A that was terrible, and b, you must be crazy to think lame jokes are gonna make math sound fun to anyone.”

“Well, math puns are the first _sine_ of madness,” Dick says, cherrily.

Jason snorts, and then freezes, eyes growing wide.

“Did you just laugh at my joke?”

He slides one hand over his mouth, but Dick can see the dimple setting into the corner of his mouth. “No.”

“Holy mackerel, you did. You thought my joke was funny.”

“I sneezed because it’s dusty down here,” Jason protests, but it’s there. The sparkle in his eyes that's for Dick alone.

Somehow, those little changes strike deep inside Dick’s chest, turning his insides to mush and cutting through all of his carefully made plans. He was supposed to wait. Build a report and then a friendship. He would make sure the connection he felt between them had been real without the influence of a mission or a teen party or candy pink filtering through his veins. But Dick knows how he feels, and Jason’s here. That means something.

Dick puts down his pencil and takes up Jason’s hand, which is warm and rough between his own. “Hey, Jason?”

“You’re doing it again, rich boy.”

“Is this okay? I never asked before, so I'm asking now. You know. In case you want me to stop.”

Jason looks down at their hands and then back to his text book. The back of his neck glows a pale pink. “Well. I don’t. I don’t care, but you. You seriously need to learn about boundaries.”

“I guess that's another thing you're gonna have to help me with, but I want to tell you something important.”

“You’ve already thanked me, so—”

“No, Jason, it's not that. I want you to know that I like you. I like you a lot.” Dick smiles softly when Jason’s gaze swings to meet his. He recovers, barely, frowning and shifting in his seat, but he doesn’t pull away. Dick lets his thumb slide down to Jason’s wrist. The pulse is strong, rushing high with what Dick can only hope is excitement. Another thing they can share.

“You’re not supposed to be out here catching feelings, rich boy,” Jason grumbles.

“I know.”

“We’re not even. We weren’t ever supposed to meet.”

“I know.”

“And you’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“I know.”

“There’s no way I’m gonna be someone you can keep in your life, Dickie. You shouldn’t want to.”

“But I do. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

Jason glares at him. “Let me lay it out to you, Dickie. This isn’t a movie or a, a novel. There’s no happy ending here. So stop trying to make whatever little fantasy you’ve got in your head come to life. It’s not real.”

The more Jason speaks, the more it sounds like he’s tossing rehearsed lines to Dick, lines he must have told himself. Dick brings their hands to his face, rests his cheek against Jason’s thick knuckles and watches the clear green of Jason’s eyes grow dark and his voice stop.

"Maybe. But the way I feel about you, Jason Todd? That's real." He doesn't expect Jason's response. He doesn't expect the flash of weary hope to flicker across Jason's face or the way his hand twists to tighten around Dick's, squeezing tight like he's the one who doesn't want to let go.

“Jason? Do you like me too?” Dick asks, teasingly, and it’s worth it to see Jason’s ears light up pink as cherry blossoms drifting in the breeze. He’s a beautiful boy, Dick thinks, inside and out.

“I’m fucking here ain’t I?” Jason mutters, and Dick laughs because they’re both together, here. Real in this moment.

And that’s enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been nearly five slutty, slutty years since I started this story, but the first story arc is done! Thank you all for your comments and kudos. And if you liked these boys, stay tuned. I have a couple more stories in this universe to share. And most of them appeared on tumblr, so they're done but for the edits.


End file.
